imagine Oliver Queen having the personality of the vigilante (his whole life) in terms of discipline and strictness.
Oliver scratches the itchiness of the fake beard.
Sometimes he thinks of the point of the disguise. It's not like anybody has seen him before outside his office (aside from the head of the IT department and security). But he's inclined to think he's trying to be safe in case somebody already did.
Coupled with a pressed charcoal grey suit, the disguise added more character to the non-existent person he's currently posing as—a man between 50s and 60s and is a potential investor of Queen Consolidated.
Today, the lower divisions will never know what (or who) hit them.
Oliver Queen.
The new CEO of Queen Consolidated after inheriting the company from his late father, Robert Queen, who died in a boating accident. Robert Queen has been a good CEO, lighthearted and knew when to give incentives when an employee deserves one. Although some would say he was too lenient, especially to those supervisors who hardly do their work and like to dump the load on their assistants. There are also those workers at the low tier of the hierarchy easily get away with playing online poker during working hours.
Those are exactly the kind of employees Oliver seeks to weed out.
It helps that he never had an image posted on any tabloid or social media, as he's shying away at journalists and paparazzi. Thea is the face of the only two Queen children, and Oliver is glad to have the people believe he resembles her closely.
There's a secret forum used by QC employees where the hottest topic for the month is the ever elusive new CEO. The website changes the password every day, but it isn't as if a hindrance to Felicity in cracking and then posting anonymously with Thea regarding the description of one Oliver Queen.
The members of the message board tend to get contradicting information such as:
"six-footer black guy with British accent."
"white dude in mid-forties with a mechanical hand and uses it bitch slap deadbeat employees."
"has shaved eyebrows that make him look like Liberace."
"bald and overweight. Sweats profusely at the sight of female skin."
"has supermodel face but height of Tyrion Lannister."
Thea and Felicity seem to be having fun that he doesn't discourage them. Though he wonders if the workers will take him seriously if they really think he looks like anywhere near by those descriptions.
Oh, they will be when he starts firing those incompetents.
Oliver starts with the receptionist, a buxom lady with strawberry blonde hair filing her nails absentmindedly with her whole rapt attention at the computer screen. He follows her eyes to an ongoing online blackjack, his lips twitching when she hardly notices him standing there. He has to tap his fingers insistently before a fellow receptionist on the other desk hissed at her while looking nervously at the old man getting irritated each passing second.
"Hello, good morning and welcome to Queen Consolidated, sir," came the jubilant greeting and an overly-stretched smile showing a perfect set of white teeth. She leans forward a fraction, dress shirt open at the first three buttons, showing ample view of impressive cleavage. If she got hired because those assets alone, he will have words with the head of the HR. Or maybe replace him as well. Whatever suits.
"Hello to you too and it's already afternoon," he corrects her, tone almost snapping. He clears his throat mildly. "Miss Everette." Her nametag reads.
Her bright smile falters a bit. "Apologies, sir…"
"Outis. William Outis." She checks briefly for the name. "I have a 12:30 appointment with Mr. Vaugnham."
She confirms that the supervisor he's looking for is in, and is directed at the 5th floor, third office to his left. Oliver already knew beforehand the office he's supposed to go, as he firmly believes he should know his own building and its occupants.
When he arrives though, there's no supervisor around save the young man who Oliver guessed is the assistant, frantically moving around the office to either answer phone calls while sorting through stacks of files or typing something on the computer on his desk.
He notices Oliver and sends him an apologetic look, vaguely gesturing at the phone. He doesn't make him wait long by respectfully cutting off the person on the other line. Oliver heard reprimanding voices and judging the way the man flinches, nobody wants to be the receiving end of that call.
He lets out a tired sigh before addressing Oliver fully. The latter is taken aback at how young the man looks behind the glasses and wonders if he's an intern. Though as far as he knows, QC isn't accepting interns for the quarter of the year (as Oliver noticed they're only used as errand boys by managers).
Like what this person appears to be rather than his actual position.
"William Outis," Oliver introduces, in a gruff voice. "I have an appointment with Mr. Vaugnham, about the investment I was talking to him about last Friday."
The man looks slightly alarmed and then visibly looks guilty. "Apologies, Mr. Outis. Mr. Vaugnham is not around at the moment." He recovers quickly, offering, "But if you can wait for him for half an hour? He'll be probably back by then."
Oliver very much doubt that seeing lunch break was an hour and a half ago. Not to mention the receptionist even mentions the supervisor is currently in when in fact he's not. She has no reason to lie therefore it only means that Vaugnham didn't log out of the system.
Well, well, well. Mr. Vaugnham seems to be starting a collection of every QC policy he's breaking.
Double tick for you, Vaugnham.
"I'm too pressed for time to wait for him," Oliver says. "I suppose you can answer the questions that I'll be asking." He regards the young man, sparing a good glance at the amount of workload he has that makes him irked even more to this outstanding supervisor. "Or I should go to a different person instead and let you finish?" he adds in a softer tone.
The man seems to appreciate the consideration. He smiles, saying, "I'll be happy to answer your inquiries, sir."
Oliver nods then, thankful he found a diligent worker at least.
"I'm Barry Allen, Mr. Vaugnham's assistant."
Oliver proceeds to ask him, which he supposed must have reminded Barry of his job interview with the rate of seriousness Oliver has, as if thoroughly filtering and grilling new hirees.
"What percentage of the market do you plan to get over what period of time?"
"Why does your company have high growth potential?"
"What gives your company a competitive advantage?"
"What advantages does your competition have over you?"
"What do you see are the principal risks to the business?"
If Barry's industriousness is already impressive, more so is his readiness (despite the slight nervousness) to answer the questions Oliver throws his way, responding with ease and knowledge of what he's doing and the inner workings of QC.
"I'm impressed, Mr. Allen. You know your stuff," Oliver says to him in his practiced voice. "Consider me a sure investor."
Barry seems to glow positively at the praise, shyly ducking his head as pink tipped his ears. Oliver is suddenly curious to know if the young man is not appreciated enough for him to react that way to a simple compliment. Besides, Oliver is simply stating the truth.
"Thank you, sir," Barry says in return and smiles earnestly as if it made his day.
Either low self esteem or underappreciated, Oliver decides. "I can't say the same to your supervisor," he mutters idly. He casually adds, "Tell me, do Mr. Vaugnham's swings improving somewhat? With his unofficial golfing hours and all that."
Barry visibly pales and Oliver can't help but smirk. "I always do a bit of digging of my own about the people I'm entrusting my money with." The assistant appears to understand, nodding slightly but somewhat hesitant. "I admire your loyalty. But keep in mind you should give it to the company first and foremost. Remember, the people are expendable."
Barry nods as he digests the words. Oliver is sure he's taking them at heart. He smiles privately, thinking he needs this kind of people around QC more. "Your supervisor is lucky to have you as his assistant. And I hope you get to be more than that."
"I'll work my way up, sir," Barry shares to him. Someone with ambition. Oliver likes that.
"I'm sure you will." He glances back to the workload put off. "I won't be occupying your time any longer. We can finalize it through correspondence."
He stands up at the same time Oliver does. "Will you like me to escort you out?"
Oliver shakes his head, lips grazing with a small smile at the courteous offer. "I can manage." He taps his own hips for show. "These are still somewhat functioning properly. Thankfully."
He gets a fond grin that etches itself on Oliver's mind for some odd reasons he can't comprehend yet.
And well, maybe, just maybe, there's still hope yet for most of his employees.
Mr. Vaugnham is in luck that Oliver hasn't yet reached that day his weekly quota of at least five people to fire. Though the supervisor's name is reserved exlusively for the top of pile of pink slips Oliver will be handing out by the end of the week.
By midnight, Oliver is still around the office, doing paperwork that isn't even needed until next Friday. But given how dedicated (workaholic) he is, he wants to finish the work that evening so he can move to more pressing matters for the following days.
On times like this, he's reconsidering Thea's suggestion of getting a secretary to handle his schedule. But then it will mean he'll be limited in a certain time frame; no overtime or no wasting of lunch breaks putting on disguise to monitor his employees.
So far, he's doing fine without any assistance of sorts that he places the idea at the back of his mind. Never mind that he's sacrificing most of his personal time in QC by being around even on weekends and staying until 3 AM at most. He's aware of this inevitability long before he accepted the responsibilities.
He bids the night security situated at the parking lot a pleasant evening on his way to his car. He considers parking first outside of the coffeehouse in front of the building to order a cup of black coffee, a kind of nightly ritual for him.
There's actually another main reason why he likes working up to late hours but he doesn't dwell on it much since it sounds miserable to his ears. Either way, he acknowledges that his apartment is not really worth coming home to when it's always empty after Thea moved out with her boyfriend. And her place is not even that near to his.
He sits by the window of the 24-hour coffee shop, sipping his hot beverage in a corner. At this position, he can see the night shift guard who has been in the service for years (Diggle is his name if he remembers correctly), the front exit of the QC building, and then the person to come out later than the CEO himself and giving the guard Oliver guessed a good night.
It's Barry.
It shouldn't be surprising with the impression he gave earlier that he's a hard-working young man and there are the rare bunch who does extend their shift. But glancing on his watch, Oliver sees that it's almost two in the morning and there's actually an employee who has beaten him at overtime hours.
He'll have to check tomorrow if overtimes are properly compensated.
Oliver suddenly feels bad when the ends of his lips twitch into an amused smile while watching Barry trying to hail a cab and unsuccessfully doing so. Thrice. He wonders whether taxi drivers don't notice him or Barry doesn't really stands out that much. Both are ridiculous to think of when the assistant is a six footer, albeit on the leaner side.
Fortunately for Barry, the next cab that came along stops by that Oliver can practically see him letting out a sigh of relief.
He must be watching him that intensely when all of a sudden Barry is looking straight to his direction. Oliver promptly turns away when the latter adjusts his glasses before sliding in the vehicle.
As if shaken from his reverie, Oliver lamely convinces himself that it's all part of the monitoring he's doing. He's simply looking out for an employee, and it's not that he's close to calling a taxi for Barry if ever he won't be able to get one.
Nope, he's totally not being a creep here.
Oliver sighs tiredly.
The following day has been more hectic than he expected. It started when he posed as a pizza delivery guy, interacted with a different female receptionist (a brunette of the late afternoon shift) who was busy scrolling down her Facebook news feed and placing likes on every weird pouting faces of friends' selfies she passed by. She almost threw him the log book while she asked him to sign. Oliver was close to clicking his tongue at the rudeness when the phone rang and surprise, surprise, wasn't picked up by the second ring.
"Aren't you going to pick that up?"
"That's just the telemarketer or something."
He remembers feeling a bout of headache at that point, especially when he almost forcefully pointed out that she couldn't have known that and it might be important.
But instead, the nerve, she gave direction to where this Mr. Emerson would be and warned him that the old man wouldn't give any tip no matter how punctual he was.
When he reached his destination though, he realized that was only the beginning.
Because apparently, workers cramped together in a single room and separated only by cubicles with thin partitions are a lot worse, as if living in a different dimension astray from normalcy and—
One word: disaster.
The coffee shop's door chimes open and there's movement on the stool next to his that he vaguely registers when he exhales frustratingly once again, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose and he hopes the strong aroma of the coffee will abate the migraine.
"Late night?"
Oliver realizes he's being asked. To his right though is the last person he expected to see, but isn't really an unwelcome distraction.
Barry offers him a tentative smile, looking as if he regrets asking a stranger out of the blue.
"Yeah. Late night," Oliver replies. He's now conscious of himself that he straightens his posture. He thinks Barry is early tonight, an hour before 12. They're early tonight.
Barry hums on the rim of his cup. Oliver noted the latte. "It's a rather eventful day, isn't it? Though to be fair, it always is."
"Not if you're on desk job all day."
"I suppose. But not to all."
That's probably true. Oliver relents when he gives a nod of agreement. "Speaking from experience?"
"Yeah. Sometimes, I don't know whether to feel fortunate or not with the different kind of calls I'm getting. I mean, they're not the good kind all the time."
"That's the reason you need an assistant," Oliver segues conversationally. "To serve as the buffer."
"If only assistants could get their own." There's an amused lilt in his voice.
"Oh." Oliver pretends to not know, he gestures at the QC building. "That's where you work?"
"Yep. For two years now." Barry asks him in return. "You?"
"Merlyn Global Group, for four years," Oliver lies smoothly. "That pretty much makes us neighbors."
"You're right." Barry sets down his cup. "I heard Mr. Merlyn is quite a charming man. The females at QC like it when he's around."
Oliver grew up with Tommy and charming is the downplayed way to describe his best friend. "He is, isn't he?" He's reminded of one anecdote from high school regarding the prank he was somehow hooked into despite being an uptight student that he was. Oliver puffs out a low laugh, mildly startling Barry. He coughs to adjust himself, not really one to be seen laughing in public.
"You, ah, don't smile much, do you?" Barry brings up, green eyes twinkling in wonder before glancing away in embarrassment at being caught staring.
Oliver changes the topic for the both of them. "How's working for QC? I heard you got a new head."
"We do. Though Mr. Queen is yet to be seen outside the selected few who had. You know he's there but you can't see him. Most call him Typhoon Ollie."
It's the first time Oliver heard of the nickname. "Typhoon Ollie?"
Barry chuckles. "It originated from the secret forums we have. They monitor where Mr. Queen has hit and then marks them with red bullets. There are plenty of red marks these past two weeks, meaning that's the number of people he fired."
In Oliver's defense, it isn't as if they don't deserve it. But if he's already dubbed as much, why aren't the others worried for their sake? Perhaps the intimidation hasn't reached them yet. "And what do you think of him?"
The younger man is thoughtful for a second. "Personally, I think he's a good CEO. A disciplinarian, maybe, but he's not horrible as the others make him to be. I'm not sugarcoating either."
Well, that's… new. "What makes you think so?"
"It's not only me who thinks so," he tells him. "Did you know that three of the supervisors he fired last Wednesday like stealing most of their assistants' ideas and then gets the credit for themselves? Those fellow assistants are also friends of mine. And they're really grateful for what Mr. Queen did."
Oliver had no idea. If he recalls correctly, he terminated them for different reasons. But now that Barry mentioned it, those three did tend to present creative proposals in spite of their tardiness.
Karma served its purpose it seems.
"So, yeah. I think Mr. Queen is alright. He ousts employees with good reasons, and as long as you're doing your job properly, you won't be his victim."
Oliver grunts noncommittally, but mentally glad that his point is delivered across. He sneaks a glance towards Barry and catches him stifling a yawn. And observing him closely, the assistant looks exhausted and lacking a few nights' sleep. A concerned part of Oliver's mind feels terrible for stalling the younger man at the coffee shop when he could have got some rest and not unknowingly giving his own boss a performance check.
"It's getting late," he starts, glancing at his watch. "Not planning to sleep anytime soon?"
Barry looks up at him tiredly. "I look that beat," he states, fully aware. He runs a hand to his hair. "Or I am that bad a company?"
"No." Oliver shakes his head at how rude he sounded. "You look worn out."
The former shrugs. "Typical me." He smiles wryly. "There are still some forms I have to do once I get home. I might not be having that sleep anytime soon."
"You take them home?" The older man frowns.
"Well, they won't be doing their own so."
So does Mr. Vaugnham. Oliver is close to immediately terminate that guy without reaching Friday. "I see."
"But you're right. I should really get going, um…" Barry trails off, brows quirking. He tilts his head. "Have we met before?"
Oliver raises an eyebrow, silently hoping that he isn't recognized as his persona yesterday.
Barry quickly amends, "That's not a pick-up line or something. It's just that you seem familiar." He paused. "Are you related to a Mr. William Outis by any chance?"
"Never heard the name." That almost strikes close to home. "Jonas." Oliver offers his hand automatically, all business-like. Thank god for not slipping into calling Barry his name.
"Barry." He pretends to test the name like he doesn't know of it. "I'll be seeing you around, Mr. Jonas."
Without thinking, Oliver asks him to stay for another five minutes, tops, ordering from the attendant a tall cup of his usual black coffee. He hands the takeout to an unsuspecting Barry who takes it with eyes blinking in confusion. "To help keep you up and about for more hours. It helps," is the only explanation he gives.
"Thank you." Barry's face lights up over the weary expression. Oliver isn't even sure if he likes his coffee bitter and black but Barry seems grateful for the drink as if a kid who was given sweets.
He bids Oliver a good night, adding that he'll have to return the gesture next time, and only when Oliver watches him leave that the latter realizes he just bought somebody a drink, and with Barry's last statement, it seems that it won't be their last meeting.
This isn't how Oliver anticipated the day to end but it makes up for the earlier stress.
And somehow it becomes better.
Albeit the shy tendencies, Barry is witty and quite the nerd, as Oliver noticed. He has the penchant for quoting famous lines from science fiction movies that Oliver half recognizes, or sharing random trivia related to whatever topic they're currently discussing. In the middle of their discussion about water heaters (how they got there, he'll never know), Oliver learns he's originally from Central City and lived with a foster family. And oddly enough that's how he gets bits of personal information, through subjects that doesn't really require much deep knowledge.
Thing is, he enjoys it—when Barry cracks puns that turn funny at the ridiculousness, or when there's a really lame joke that Oliver heard before numerous times.
He enjoys watching him too, when Barry's glasses will fog because of the warm coffee, or when he scrunches his face when thinking or recollecting. He hides an expressive set of green irises behind the thick-rimmed glasses, Oliver can't help but noted. Sometimes he feels… different when he's under his gaze that Oliver will pause when speaking.
It's only the fourth evening of their nightly coffees and he's already developing a mild case of fixation to one of his employees.
Not that he's any better during working hours.
Earlier when he was posing as a package delivery man, with long blond wig and fake bushy brows, he stopped right outside the office Barry was in and peeked through the glass panels on the either sides of the door.
Before he got hooked at plain staring though, he composed himself and prepared a litany of excuses if ever he would be accused of being a creep lingering in the hallway.
He wondered right then what was his real purpose, stalk—ahem, monitor Barry or staking out for potential ex-worker candidate.
"It's raining," Barry mutters.
There's the unmistakable pitter patter of water against the glass window of the coffee house. The street is hardly visible from the heavy drops of water that in turn makes Oliver think of Barry commuting.
When he asked, the younger man merely shrugs and says he can manage. But then again, there's no waiting shed at the other side of the road and last time Oliver checked, Barry can't get a cab at first try.
"I can at least drive you near your block," Oliver suggests without finesse, the gentleman that he is.
Barry is startled at the offer but declines politely, saying he'd rather not bother him since he goes the other way. He's pretty confident that the rain will let up within the hour.
It doesn't.
If anything, it gets more terrible.
The assistant finally relents, defeated when Oliver brings it up again. There's a part of him that is smug at the victory. Over what, he doesn't know exactly.
Barry slides in at the passenger seat and tells the direction where Oliver can drop him. He was humming a tune on the radio until he falls quiet. Oliver checks on him only to find the man asleep and he doesn't have the heart to wake him up, allowing him the thirty minutes of driving and only when he's sure he got the right destination that he lightly shakes Barry by his shoulder.
"We're here."
"Mhmm." Barry groggily forces his eyes open, blinking under the dim orange light. "Thanks," he murmurs. "Thanks for the ride."
"You're welcome."
He puts on a silly grin when he looks up to Oliver under heavy eyelids.
It's like driving home a drunken Tommy, except that Barry is not drunk, just sleepy, and he's not drunk either, just under the influence of sleepiness, when he leans closer and pecks Oliver on the cheek.
"Good night, Jonas," is Barry's farewell to him in a soft voice.
Oliver might have qualms letting him walk the dark street like an inebriated individual, if only he's not busy wrapping his mind on the fact that he was just kissed without preamble. And while it's not that he's lacking experience in that department, it has been long since the last.
The spot where Barry's lips touched chastely is still warm when he gets home, even until he's on his bed and he's reminiscing the past few days as if they were from long time ago. When he can't stop thinking about a certain assistant that made a good impression on him, Oliver knows he's fucked.
And, of course, he'll have to drop the charade he has been doing on a whim.
When Barry arrives at the office, Oliver was there first.
Oliver has this well-thought out (within sleepless hours), mind replaying over and over how he imagined today will flow. He practiced his words beforehand, the nervousness somewhat uncharacteristic of him, and so is his reaction when Barry comes in without his usual glasses, hair slicked back, and collar buttons open. It's morning, right. Bless him, because if Barry looks attractive already despite the haggardness of the day, what more at the start of the day when he's refreshed and rested?
He has it that bad, and guiltily admits checking out an employee.
"Jonas?"
"Hi." His own voice sounds hoarse. Oliver wets his lips. "I don't have your number so I went here directly."
"It's fine." Barry waves a hand. "Anything I can help you with? If you're here about company matter, you'll have to wait for Mr. Vaugnham, my supervisor. He tends to come in late." He shots Oliver an apologetic look. "Sorry about that."
Oliver smiles wryly. Is there anything new? "I'm not here strictly for him, but, yes, there's also a matter related. But mostly it concerns you." He inhaled then blurts out, "Would you mind if I ask you out?"
"Pardon?"
"I've been thinking—and it's understandable if you don't want to since we only met on Tuesday—but I can't keep you away from my mind, especially when you kissed me last night—"
Barry gasps. "I did?" Shame blooms on his face, completely missing Oliver's point. "Oh my god, I wasn't imagining it." He refused to meet the other man's eyes, wanting to be swallowed by the ground in mortification. "I'm sorry?"
"As I was saying," Oliver interrupts. "I'd really like it if you say yes."
"Say yes to what?"
"Me asking you out? Buying you a drink? Whatever you call it."
"Aren't we doing that every night?"
"No, that's… different. What I mean is taking you to a date."
"Oh." Barry shifts on his feet awkwardly. "You're not just humoring me? I mean, I'm too obvious."
They both look like dorks. It's ridiculous but hell if Oliver doesn't find that funny. "Is that a yes?"
An adorable shade of pink colors Barry's cheeks when he nods in assent.
Oliver's lips curl into a satisfied smile, feeling triumphant of phase one (the most important). Moving on to phase two, he pulls out a single brown envelope labeled with the name of Barry's supervisor. "As for the other matter." He hands the nondescript envelope to Barry. "If you can give this to Mr. Vaugnham?"
On his way out, hand on the doorknob, Oliver turns back to the other. "Whatever happens later on, you won't take back your answer, won't you?"
"I don't think so." Barry flashes him an amused look, grinning ear to ear. "Promise."
Oliver is not immune, mirroring the expression when he says, "Good. I'll see you at 8 PM."
There's a heated altercation between the security and Barry's supervisor when the former escorts the latter out of the premises. Barry realized it was after he gave to his supervisor the envelope he was handed.
Some more followed Mr. Vaugnham out, mostly he doesn't know of but Barry recognizes the brunette from the reception (Meriam?). When he sees the pink slip from the envelope left by his former supervisor (who thankfully calms down afterwards), his eyes widened, coming to a conclusion.
His phone vibrates in his pocket.
When Oliver sends the text, he thinks he can bend the rules for this one, and thinks that for once, he's doing something for himself. It's selfish, he knows, but he's also aware that it'll be worth it.
It's a win-win.
…
From: Unknown Number
Subject: none
Body:
Congratulations, Mr. Barry Allen. You're now CEO Oliver Queen's secretary starting tomorrow.
P.S.
Do you like Italian?
THE END
salamat ;*